


The Nameless

by Skowronek



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Drama, F/M, Magical Realism, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:43:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skowronek/pseuds/Skowronek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To him, I have always been Anthea. There are some others – ordinary humans – who address me like that as well. But they only see a dark haired, smartly dressed young woman who has more money than time and more work than life. They cannot and will not see the smile I have for him and the gestures I make while I talk to him, and the tears I sometimes have in my eyes. He is the only one who can see them all. He is the only one whom I allow to see them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nameless

Some of us are nameless.

No one ever speaks about it out loud. We wander around like ghosts, able to change shapes, able to change souls, able to change names. We do not live – we float from one existence to another, and the world is timeless, undefined and infinite.

If you want to make something real, you give it a name. You label it, you put it on the bookshelf of the words which describe the reality surrounding you. In your perfect uncomplicated world, everything is named. Everything is categorized.

And yet, here we are.

No one knows for certain how we were created. We are born as humans, to human families, and as soon as our ability to perceive the world makes us realize that something is wrong,that our Name is not good enough, not fitting enough, not descriptive enough – we Change it. We throw it away, like an old pair of shoes, and adopt another one. Then, our personality is altered as well, parroting our Name, making it convincing, making it perfect. Sometimes our appearances become different too; it should be painful but is not. After all, we are only shadows.

Some of us Change their Names often. Some of us try to stick to your perfect world and make everything  appear as normal and boring as possible. Personally, I have always thought it rather dull and unbecoming. In theory, we can be anyone we wish to be, for as long as we wish it to last – seconds, days, centuries. We only die when we are Burnt, when we have no purpose, no dream to follow, when we do not have a Name we would like to take. Then, we truly become shadows.  It is not a sorrowful life – we are blessed with a dreamy-like existence, one which can last for a long time, one which can be instantly altered if it does not satisfy us anymore. It is more than ordinary humans can hope for. But still, we pay our price. We are infertile, barren like the shadows we are.

I know a few other Nameless. They are alone, like me. We have our small society, with legends and customs, but all in all, we are outside. Even if we are a part of human families, even if we work with humans, we are not them – and yet we pretend to be. Every one of us is a trickster, including me.

Today, I am calling myself Anthea, and this is the story I wish you share with you, for even though I am just a shadow, I want to leave a solid mark.

                                                                           

     To him, I have always been Anthea. There are some others – ordinary humans – who address me like that as well. But they only see a dark haired, smartly dressed young woman who has more money than time and more work than life. They cannot and will not see the smile I have for him and the gestures I make while I talk to him, and the tears I sometimes have in my eyes. He is the only one who can see them all. He is the only one whom I allow to see them.

As I have said, we can control who we are, to a greater extent than the humans are able to. We guard ourselves. We protect ourselves. The question is – which of our selves are true?

We do not seek the answer. Not really. If we did... No, I do not know what would happen. The answer would define us. Make us solid. Make us finite. Maybe we would stay forever imprisoned in the shape we were in while discovering the answer. Maybe we would turn into humans. Maybe we would disappear.

I do not want to think which of these options I would prefer.

He says he does not either.    

 

     I used to bear the name of Grace, which had been my favourite one, for  two years with short breaks when I wanted to relax, pretend to be someone different... regenerate. Grace used to have auburn hair, straight and short, and pale green eyes, and it was she who first started working for Mycroft Holmes.  This man is aware of many things, earthly and unearthly, and he hired me because I am Nameless. I did not know how he managed to discover us, and frankly, I did not care. He was the only human I had knowledge of who was familiar with us. Being too intelligent to foolishly believe that he understands us, he realised there would be a mystery which he would not ever fully comprehend. I thought that was one of the reasons why I am so valuable to him – I can understand it, decipher it, reveal it and unravel it.

After all, I was that mystery as well.

 

     The day I met him for the first time, I woke up as Grace. It was an early morning when I padded to the bathroom and caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror. There was a tiny spark of anticipation which I could feel in my bones, a slight shade of disturbing wrongness surrounding me, suffocating me, squeezing me. The day of my Change, then.  I had an ethereal notion of my body being shaped – I was not sure if by some mysterious outside forces or myself – and it was a quick process, painless and almost boring, after all the years of practice.

     When I Change, I always keep my eyes closed. It is rather uncommon – other Nameless tend to feel a morbid fascination and their insatiable curiosity causes them to observe and analyse every detail as their bodies and their entire selves undergo a transformation.

So, I had my eyes closed, and when I finally opened them, I could see in the mirror that they were blue. My skin lost its pale shade, and my hair was darker and longer. The annoying feeling was slowly but surely disappearing, replaced by a relieving sense of calmness.  In that moment, I was truly Nameless, a creature with a temporary body and a fickle attitude to life, and death, and being. I was aware of the necessity of choosing a Name but I did not have to hurry. There is a reason we call ourselves the Nameless. It explains who we are, and yet does not define, not in a way which could endanger us.

I cannot recall what Mycroft Holmes had me do that day. When I entered his office, he recognised me immediately, not showing any signs of surprise or curiosity.

‘What is your name today?’, he asked matter-of-factly, accepting the file I was handing to him, and opening it uninterestedly. 

‘I don’t have one, sir’, I answered flatly, as his phone chimed and he picked it up.  I could feel that I was going to discover it soon; the feeling of finality was growing, preparing me, shaping me, but Mycroft Holmes did not have to know that. He acknowledged my reply with a nod and delegated some tasks to me, and all in all, the day seemed to be blurry in its dullness and normalcy. But I knew something was going to happen soon. On the days of my Change, it always did.

 

     And by the time it did, I had discovered my new-found liking to Chinese cuisine and black clothes. It was always the most pleasant part of my Change – learning who I am, the small things which appear insignificant but are crucial. Grace used to read Jane Austen novels but my new self could not stand them. Grace had a good voice, my new self, Anthea would not know what a key is even if it walked up to me and slapped me in the face. Also, Grace used to call. Anthea would rather text.

But most importantly, my new self was the one who has met him.

 

     I knew the moment in which I would learn my name was approaching when Mycroft Holmes ordered me to kidnap a man. He gave me some data – an ex-soldier, a doctor, blond, psychosomatic limp, wounded in action, and named John Watson. It was a plain name which triggered colourful images – words floating in my mind, letters going together to form infinite possibilities. Therefore, when John Watson finally got into the car and inquired about my name, I had but a moment of hesitation before I replied the word which was going to follow me in this shade that I had now taken:

_Anthea._

In that second, everything felt right.

 

He was fascinating in a strange way which is difficult to explain. My orders were quite clear – get him to Mycroft Holmes, ignore him on the way – but I could not help but observe John Watson when I knew he was not looking. He appeared to be calm enough, all things considered, although there was something in the way he moved his head that reminded me of a cat ready to attack, as if his instincts were telling him to be wary, to be prepared. He tried chatting me up while we were passing the chilly London streets by, but I had to keep my distance – Mycroft Holmes’ words left me no illusions that I could, perhaps, talk to him.

Ten minutes after John Watson had got into the car, Mycroft Holmes sent me a text: _Is his left hand steady?_

I quickly sent a reply: _Yes._

 

     I was waiting in the car while Mycroft Holmes was talking to him – probably bribing him into something not strictly moral or trying to intimidate him, and I was wondering. There was something unnervingly familiar which I could not put my finger on, something that made John Watson extraordinary, but also quite irritating. After a short while, I received a text informing me to take him back to 221B Baker Street, so I walked up a bit closer to him – but still, of course, careful to keep my distance – and trying not to stare at him, with my eyes still glued to the phone, I said that I was to take him home.

My voice sounded neutral and flat.

 

The next time we met, I was accompanying Mycroft Holmes at the crime scene and John Watson had just killed a man.

In the back of my mind I was curious whether Mycroft Holmes wanted to check up on his younger brother because of Sherlock’s brush with death, the recent acquaintance with a dangerous crack shot who had appeared to be harmless or because of some interest in the mystery that John Watson happened to be. Or perhaps all three of them? This was exactly the kind of man Mycroft Holmes would be interested in, and no wonder – God only knows I was enthralled, too.

But I was told to keep my distance, so I did.

 

     He never slipped out of my mind; he was the mystery drawing me to unravel it, always present somewhere in my thoughts, or in my reports, or on the CCTV footage I was ordered to watch. So I never forgot him, a brave blond ex-soldier, a walking contradiction – a killer and a healer. I was wondering whether he found this dual nature of his life painful, but as I would never ask, he would never tell. There was nothing in his behaviour that suggested uneasiness, no matter if he was trying to read some fantasy novels while Sherlock Holmes was conducting some loud suspicious experiments in the kitchen, or if he was chasing criminals in the moony streets of London, or if he was treating the flu with the honest smile of his that somehow always lingered in my memory longer than it should.  John Watson was quite a complex individual but he was also quite truthful to himself. Now I know that it ought to have been the first oddity to tip me off.

     But I was working for another mystery, Mycroft Holmes, the man who knew more about the Nameless than some of us did. It was both frightening, disconcerting and appealing, and I felt strangely drawn to him and repelled at the same time. Working for him was always a welcome challenge, and I never felt bored. He was a good boss, perfectly polite, in his impeccable clothing and with kind questions inquiring about your problems, if you had any. And he always knew if you did.

There were times I felt terrified of it – the way he noticed everything, knew everything, observed everything. He only had to glance at you to learn your secrets, and the more you tried to hide them, the faster he would discover them. There is nothing more obvious to Mycroft Holmes than the fact that you have attempted to hid your secret, because it shows him that you indeed had one. And Mycroft Holmes, no matter how much he mocks his younger brother,  find secrets irresistible.

There is no wonder that he has a big one of his own as well.

 

     Maybe two months or so after my meeting with John Watson, I was contacted by a friend of mine. We rarely see each other, and it is quite an odd friendship, as she works for the government too, but in France. We never talk about our jobs, we have no time for meeting up and idle chattering, but we know we can rely on each other. After all, we are both Nameless, and that fact itself makes us feel we have more in common with one another than with other people.

That time, she was calling herself Giselle. I was curious how she looked like but we were talking on the phone; I only remember that her voice was little higher, and she was less gloomy than the previous time we spoke, three months earlier.

‘Oh, Anthea’, she exclaimed, ‘You won’t believe what’s going on! Mary – you know her, right? She used to be Celia last winter – so, Mary was dating a guy. I mean, a human one, she thought, but he tells her he’s Nameless too! Doesn’t it make nineteen of us in Britain now? Can you believe it? Anyway, he said he has enough contact with the Faceless and doesn’t want to stay in touch with us’, Giselle paused to take a deep breath before shouting to the phone, ‘Such a shame! But, honestly, the Faceless!’

I would bet that Mycroft Holmes had already located the nineteenth Nameless and kept a close eye on him. But it was the news about the man’s relationship with the Faceless that were shocking indeed.

No one had ever had a direct contact with the Faceless. This Name, a customary title, does not convey the whole meaning of who he or she was: a shade, our invisible ruler, the one who kept the Nameless out of trouble, both a father figure and a predator to us. If this man could talk to him directly, he was either a rebel or somebody very privileged. No one could meet the Faceless in person, and the most you were able to do equalled writing to him.

‘I do hope he’s not another Sebastian’, Giselle whispered intently, ‘I don’t think I could stand it. I mean, we are all very tolerant and understanding but...’ she let the unfinished sentence float somewhere over the Channel. There was not much more to add.

 

     Giselle was correct stating that we are a tolerant lot. We always have been; not having the total control over our Change, we feel it would be pointless to blame ourselves or  wallow in guilt that sometimes we become more monsters than humans. We adapt. We embrace it. This is the way it works if we want to remain sane. This is why we have the Faceless one to clean up after us is something  goes wrong.

     But there was one man, whom I have never met, who still makes us consider this approach. He was the one to show us it does not work the way it should. We still are afraid of him.

He called himself Sebastian Moran.

 

     The day we learned about his existence, he disappeared. In fact, had it not been for this act, we would have been kept in the dark, and Sebastian Moran would be no concern of ours.

It was the year when I started working for Mycroft Holmes, only a few days after I had discovered that he had hired me because of my extraordinary abilities. It was my lunch break, and I got a call from Giselle – or Lucy, as she used to call herself back then.

‘Grace’, she intoned urgently, ‘there’s an emergency’.

Lucy was a gentle, fragile creature, who illustrated fairy-tales in her spare time and kept kittens. Her voice was trembling, and I could picture her clearly – pale, frightened, with that big rabbit-like eyes of her, when she continued:

‘His current name is Sebastian Moran. The Faceless is getting him dishonourably discharged from the army... at least officially. Unofficially, I don’t know what he’s going to do, but goodness, I hope it’s going to teach Moran a lesson’, Lucy’s voice was suddenly stronger.

‘What has he done?’, I asked, preparing mentally for the worst.

‘Sebastian Moran’, Lucy pronounced this name slowly, carefully, with almost a vicious melody, ‘killed every single one of the men in his unit. He claimed to have done it because it made him laugh’.

 

     While we are usually quite open-minded and understanding when it comes to morality and its relativity, I myself can be considered to have a rather conservative outlook, and try to avoid the more complicated issues. I have never Changed into someone who would commit a crime and the darkest I have dared to do was connected with my work for Mycroft Holmes. Still, I was only following his various targets and associates in one of these black cars of his, and then politely kidnapping them and returning safely in one piece. Even for humans, while it might be a tiny bit creepy, it was not that bad, I think. For us, it was not even a shady job. We are the people of strange professions and unusual inclinations – that one fact has never changed.

Therefore, I was more than concerned to learn about Sebastian Moran. Soon after Lucy’s phone call I was summoned by Mycroft Holmes. Of course, the moment I walked into his office, he noticed my – obvious to him, non-existent to everybody else – discomfort.

‘I see you’ve been informed about Moran’, he mentioned flatly,  ‘I trust your work will remain unaffected. He should be no concern of yours’.  For Mycroft Holmes it was the closest to comforting he would ever offer. I could only nod.

We had never discovered what had happened to Sebastian Moran. Gradually, he was becoming a dark, misty memory, half-forgotten, more of a fairy-tale than the truth.

 

     More than nine years after his disappearance, this memory has started to resurface again, but it was still invisible, just a whisper lingering on the horizon.

 

     When we had this talk, he was calling himself Alex, had short blond hair and pale freckled hands, and worked as a music teacher. I rarely spoke to him, and we had never been friends, not really, but we were a small group, and it was useful to stick together. We were in a park, a green boring place with too many dogs and too little silence, talking about the latest news. Rumour had it that the Faceless had just covered up some affair which our regular troublemaker, going by the name of Richard, had orchestrated.

‘But enough of that’, Alex finally decided, ‘what do you think of the new face? The old man is said to have been  in direct contact with him’.

‘Nothing’, I answered shortly, ‘After all, I don’t know him’.

Alex winked.

‘Max and me... well, we were feeling a bit mischievous, you know how Max has been acting... So, we traced the guy down. Took us months but we finally succeeded last Friday’, Alex boasted.

I stopped. Alex kept strolling, and only after half a minute or so did he finally notice that I was not walking beside him.

‘You’ve found him!’, I exclaimed, my fingers  itching to text Mycroft Holmes. His men had been  trying to identify the man for weeks – in vain. ‘How’s that possible?’

Alex smirked wickedly.

‘Richard had some good resources’, he winked one more time and did not elaborate. Soon, he was serious again. ‘We confronted him near a supermarket. Looks like a perfectly normal bloke, goes by some ordinary name, no one would believe he’s so dangerous. He recognized us – I don’t know how, maybe the Faceless had shown him some photos. And after a perfectly polite introduction, he cornered us, forbade us to get in contact with him again and threatened to “make our pitiful existence miserable” if we don’t listen to him. He didn’t even had to raise his voice, Anthea, and I was scared shitless. He can be like a wild untamed cat, ready to jump at your throat, he just hides it’.

For a moment we were silent – Alex still remembering the encounter, me thinking about the news.  But the second I was going to ask about the man’s name, I received a vague text from Mycroft Holmes urging me to go to Baker Street.

So I did.

 

     For a flat in which it was perfectly normal to stumble upon severed body parts in the kitchen, 221B Baker Street looked deceivingly respectable. Nothing suggested that you could be welcomed by a huge explosion or insane violin screeches, or – and it was not even the most unusual occurrence of all – gun shots accompanied by frustrated exclamations. I have always found it quite ironic that while Sherlock Holmes kept claiming to be bored, things were usually very exciting if you spent some time with him.

I had no idea why Mycroft Holmes had instructed me to come here, but now I was standing on the doorstep and waiting for the landlady to welcome me in. I had kidnapped her once, I recalled, a long time ago – shortly after Sherlock’s decision to move in. We had had a lovely chat about her favourite tea flavour and my fashion sense (‘You should wear brighter colours, my dear, it would cheer you up! It’s a shame that such a pretty girl looks so gloomy!’). Her no-nonsense threat to one of the agents is still infamous among Mycroft Holmes’ workers (‘If you won’t treat me with respect, young man, you will regret it! If I had coped with my late husband, do you think something would stop me from teaching you a lesson? I would love to have a chat with your mother, my boy!’).

‘Oh, you are that Mycroft’s girl’, she said to me now, inviting me in. ‘Still wearing these black dresses of yours, I see! Sherlock is the same, always in these fancy suits, they make him look so distant! He’s out now, you know, always dashing around! Come upstairs, dear, Doctor Watson is waiting for you. I’ll bring you some scones!’

It was getting curiouser and curiouser, with Mycroft Holmes’ vague text, Sherlock’s absence and the landlady’s completely unsurprised look. So I climbed up the stairs, anxious to learn what was happening and get it over and done with. I could hear some noises from the kitchen, probably John Watson preparing tea.

‘It’s open, do come in’, he shouted, so I entered the flat. The living room was as cluttered as always, and there was something resembling old Petri dishes scattered all over the place.

‘Sherlock’s latest experiments’, John Watson explained with a fond lenient smile. ‘I told him not to leave these things in the kitchen, so he moved them to this room. My mistake’, he shook his head. ‘And hello to you, Anthea... or is it a different name today? Please sit down, the tea will be ready in a moment’.

‘It’s Anthea’, I responded automatically, surprisingly comfortable in the old armchair, still wondering why exactly I had to be here. John Watson disappeared from the room, soon returning from the kitchen with the promised tea.

‘Sorry for the mess’, he apologised with another quick smile, ‘I’m under strict instructions not to move anything or he’ll burn my jumpers’, he sighed, serving the tea. ‘Sometimes I think he’ll create some kind of a Frankenstein’s baby to chase the boredom away’.

I accepted the cup with a nod, not saying anything.

‘It’s always easy to lure Sherlock out’,  John continued lightly, stopping only for a moment to take a sip of his tea. He close his eyes with contentment. ‘Mycroft had Molly Hooper, the pathologist at Barts, you know, offer Sherlock some toes or something like that, and he was off in a blink of an eye... He won’t bother us for at least an hour’.

Mrs. Hudson chose this moment to bring her scones in and left in quite a hurry – apparently she was going to visit her neighbour, whose married ones had had a row.

‘Why I am here?’, I asked him when the landlady had finally left.  John Watson ate a scone, and then, shrugging, he answered:

‘Because you have questions. Because you have been circling around the truth and it’s better to learn it from me than come to the wrong conclusion. And because Mycroft wants me to tell you, and I don’t think it would be wise to refuse’.

My thoughts began to twirl like in the day of my last Change. They were dancing, circling me, teasing me, and the inaudible music was exploding in my mind in the theatre of colours. The strange feeling of familiarity, not unlike déjà vu but much more powerful, was slowly embracing me. I blinked, keeping my eyes closed for a second longer, and took a quick sip of tea to calm myself down, but it did not stop the dance of thoughts. Something told me I should know what John Watson mean, but I could not focus. I felt naked, completely visible and open, and my hands were – what a shame! – trembling slightly.

John Watson, of course, looked remarkably composed. I wanted to be angry with him but somehow I could not find the right emotions, as if the strange explosions in my mind had confused the feelings.

‘Tell me everything’, I managed to whisper hoarsely, ‘Now’, and the vibrant colours started laughing at me, mocking me, waltzing around in weird consonances. I folded my hands neatly on my knees and felt my pulse. I used to do it when I first started working for Mycroft Holmes and it would always quiet me down. But now it did not help.

‘I will’, John Watson promised. I needed a second to remember what I was asking for. ‘I will tell you everything that is mine to tell. But take scone first, they’re a delight’.

He looked so homely, so content that he could just sit there and enjoy his perfect cup of tea and Mrs. Hudson’s scones that I wanted to smile. Then again, my mind had other ideas, supplying me with the endless circle of  thoughts that were too misty too grasp, sounds that were too quiet to hear, and colours that were too bright to be ignored.  I listened to his advice and took a scone. It was tasty, yes, but it also caused my thoughts to twirl even more.

‘Tell me’, I said, taking me pulse again to make sure that I was real and alive, that John was not a shade, not an illusion, not a myriad of colours and sounds and tea. ‘Please’.

Suddenly, he looked almost apologetic, like a child caught stealing sweets from the kitchen. He smiled half-shyly, half-mischievously, like a  pixy. Then, out of the blue, he announced:

‘I’m that infamous Nameless bloke everybody can’t shut up about’.

The world exploded in the rainbows and cacophonies, and when I opened my eyes, it was John Watson who was taking my pulse.  He was frowning disapprovingly.

‘You should’ve told me what’s been going on’, he rebuked me sternly. ‘You know I’m a doctor’. He moved his hand a bit and now his fingers were barely touching my palm. ‘Don’t move’, he ordered, ‘and breathe slowly. In. Out. In. Out. It will pass in a moment’. And as he said, the colours started fading, and the noises quieting, leaving me vulnerable and subdued, and far too cold. John Watson’s touch was burning but pleasant and comforting, as if I was holding a warm mug full of chocolate, so I allowed the contact.

He was serious and silent, letting me mull over his words, observing me keenly the whole time. Strangely enough, I did not mind. I realized it was the first time Mycroft Holmes had not ordered me to keep my distance, and here I was, with his skin touching mine. My mind calm and focused, I took the last deep breath and in the elevating moment of clarity the colours and noises began to make sense. I understood.

‘You’re my Face’, I stated, looking up at him. ‘You’.

‘Me’, John Watson easily agreed and his blue eyes were smiling. ‘Disappointed?’

I shook my head.

‘Not at all... John’.

He chuckled, I giggled, and my mind was colourful again, but in a good way, in a healing, energizing way.

I realized I should have guessed that it was him who was my Face and that I was his. Now it seemed painfully obvious and promisingly perfect.

Some of us, who are more sentimental or romantic, or perhaps prefer the simplistic view on this matter, use another term to call the Faces – soulmates. But we, who have lived long enough to learn it, know that there are names and Names, and that they are important because they define. They turn ideas into things. They make them real. The Face is a Name because it makes us as real, solid and defined as we can get. It is the constant in our lives. This is also why the Name of The Faceless is so ideal – he is the only one without his other part, his Face. He feels the solitude in his entire being and it causes him to be cold, unapproachable,  and maybe even – but who knows? – callous. He is forced to care for the whole race instead for the one person, the half of his self, and maybe he loathes it. Maybe he despises it. Maybe he is simply bored. There is no one to whom he would speak about his feelings, because there is no one truly for him. So he exists in silence. He watches, he observes, he is outside – even more than we all are. He patiently awaits for the day he is Burnt, and then he is no more than just a shade. The memory of him is lost, gone with the time, because there is no one who would truly remember him and who would truly mourn.  It is possible to live without your Face – after all, it takes time to find the right one.  It is never perfect, never completely happy, and you constantly feel that your life lacks the colours. But we, the Nameless, know that no matter how hard or lonely our lives can be, there is somebody for us, who waits just like we do. It gives us hope. The Faceless has none.

I felt stupid not to have realised that John Watson was my Face, my other self, completing me perfectly, in this Change and every Change in the future. It had been obvious from the very first day: my Changing into this shape a few hours prior meeting him, my choosing the Name of Anthea for him, Mycroft Holmes’ orders to keep my distance... Wait.

‘Mycroft Holmes’,  whispered. ‘He knew’.

John nodded, finally letting go of my hand and returning to his chair in front of me.

‘He observed’, John answered simply. ‘At first, we weren’t sure, but I felt drawn to you the night I met you and it was much stronger and powerful than a regular attraction. So we simply waited for the bond to develop, and with you constantly spying on me it wasn’t that hard’.

I agreed. I did make sense – developing bonds are delicate matters, which need to be treated carefully. They did a right thing. When you bond with your Face too early, you get overwhelmed. This feeling is much more compelling than the colour and sound experience that I had just suffered, and it sometimes forces a Change, so twisted and degenerated that we consider it the cruellest fate. This Change melts the minds of two people together. In their separate bodies, they own only one conflicted psyche, driving them slowly into insanity.

‘I understand. Still, he meddles too much’, I murmured. John Watson laughed with mirth’.

‘He does that’.

There was something in the tone of his voice, as if he was silently trying to let me in on a secret, which made me pause. I looked at John thoughtfully. He stared back at me and the corners of his mouth started to rise slowly and form a knowing smile.

‘No’, I said, suddenly strangely certain. ‘He can’t be’.

But he was, and I could see it. It made sense, although the thought that I could overlook it and that I had been working for him unknowingly seemed to the unreal.

‘Mycroft Holmes is the Faceless’,  John confirmed with a smile.

 

     The following morning, when I was summoned to his office, I welcomed Mycroft Holmes with a slightly hurt look.

‘You could have told me’, I said, ‘Sir’.

He shook his head, not acknowledging my insolence.

‘You know me as Mycroft Holmes, not the Faceless, and it will remain so’.

He made it clear that he did not wish to speak about it, and as I was only his subordinate, not an equal, I had to concede. I know an order when I see one.

‘Anthea’, he called me the moment I was going to leave. I was sure I could detect a shade of warning in his voice. ‘I hope my choices will not come between you and Doctor Watson. He should remain unaffected’.

I breathed out.

‘Yes, sir’. Now I knew for certain that he was the Faceless. No one else could be so callous to even consider harming your Face.

 

     It should have been difficult to come to terms with these revelations but surprisingly, I could easily accept the presence of John Watson in my life – my other self, my perfect complement, my Face. We decided against moving together. John not-quite-jokingly mumbled something about stopping Sherlock from destroying the universe and I enjoyed having my flat only for myself.  After a long hectic day at work, it was exhilarating to be alone for a while, and John would often visit me anyway. It might be considered a bit odd, I suppose. But the bond does not work the way a normal human relationship does. You do not need to look in the mirror all the time to know how your face looks like and to remind yourself who you are. The same goes for my Face.

But even after months had passed, I found it difficult to get used to the little joys that came with having my Face so close. The feeling was still new and fresh like a flower in the spring. The bond seemed to be almost telepathic, with John calling or texting me every time I thought about contacting him, or almost magically arriving at my flat  with my favourite Thai takeaway whenever I felt under the weather.

And the world never stopped whirling. My mind was always dancing, always moving, always twisting, although thankfully this sensation was now less overwhelming and even pleasant enough. John had said that everyone perceived their bond in a different way and that he once had had a Nameless patient who would get ticklish whenever his Face was around.

‘What do _you_ feel, John?’, I asked him once.

He laughed, his eyes bright.

‘Tea’, he answered with joy. ‘I smell tea’.

 

     He was wonderfully  normal to have around, as if we had known each other for centuries. I loved wearing his jumpers on my few days off.  He loved when I whistled old jazzy songs off key . It was obvious that meeting my Face could well be the best thing that had happened to me.

But while it is said, and I wholeheartedly agree, that your Face is your perfect other part, one thing must be explained: perfect does not mean flawless. It does not mean pure or impeccable. It stands for fitting. Your Face is meant to complement you, to match you, with all your talents and faults. Therefore, it needs to be solid, real, with all the imperfections. We do not live in a fairy-tale. We should not expect noble knights and magical godmothers. Even in the fairy-tales, there is an evil lurking in the shadows. I had been a fool thinking that in the real life it would be different.

One may even laugh at me. After all, I live in these shadows. I am one of them.

 

     It is one thing to develop a bond and another to fall in love. I cannot recall the exact moment of this revelation. I like to imagine that it was something simple, one of these little things which never seem to be important until everything clicks and they just are. The way he would fold his newspaper after reading it. The way he would tell Sherlock off for saying something inappropriate at the crime scene and then immediately start to giggle. The way he would talk animatedly about the stars and the moons and other various celestial bodies because his grandfather had encouraged his interest in astronomy ages ago, in the hilly town in Scotland. The way he would hold my hand. The way he would sometimes look through the window, never really seeing anything, with tense shoulders and darkened eyes. When I would ask him what is the matter, he would never answer, so I learned to hug him. Then, we would look through the window together.

Yes, I think it must have been this one.

 

     Sherlock Holmes, of course, was aware of the situation. I think John had tried to tell him soon after our development of the bond, but the detective only rolled his eyes.

‘Mycroft is one of you, yes, John, do you really think I wouldn’t have noticed? He is clever’, Sherlock admitted it as though the mere thought caused him extreme pain, ‘But not clever enough. Obviously’.

Sherlock, though, was a human. Exceptionally brilliant one, but an ordinary man. Personally, I suppose that was why he had been so resentful towards Mycroft Holmes.

‘Mycroft is not his real brother’,  John once confessed. ‘He’d been around at least for a century, maybe even longer. Still, they are related and grew up together. Mycroft had kept the same Change for at least thirty years’.

It was the longest Change I had ever heard about, a very unusual one, but then again, Mycroft Holmes was not a usual man.

‘I think he used to be Sherlock’s grand-uncle before this Change’, John mused. ‘Must have been a shock for Sherlock wake up one morning and discover that he has an older brother. The family, of course, had deduced everything quite early, bloody geniuses. They have known there is a Nameless among them for ages’.

It was not uncommon for human relatives to be aware of the situation, especially if the first Change happened when a Nameless was still a child. But the humans are afraid of us. They keep their distance. We are a great unknown and what they cannot comprehend, they fear.

It is not that dreadful, I think. Personally, I prefer it to hate.

 

     It was four years after our first meeting and John had just returned from South America. I had not seen him for three weeks; he had been helping the Faceless to trace down the remains of Moriarty’s web. They had both stepped in just in time to stop Sherlock from doing something foolish and regrettable. It rarely ended well when a human played games with the Nameless. It was even more disastrous if the said Nameless happened to be connected with Jim Moriarty, Richard Brook, or whichever Name was he using that time. And of course, it was even more calamitous if Jim was personally involved. I am not sure how John had managed to convince Sherlock to give him a hand – because I had no doubts it had been John’s doing. Nor do I know why it was John to whom the Faceless had delegated this task, other than my Face’s soldier skills and his relationship with both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.  But there had to be something else, something which made John avoid my eyes and Sherlock murmur disdainfully about my lacking deductive abilities.  

And yet, I did not need to deduce to see that something was wrong. My Face was hesitating, uncertain, almost in pain. As he was a part of me, I would feel it too – a distant echo of confusing emotions.

I knew that it was vital to dismantle the criminal web as soon as possible. I was also fairly certain that had I asked, either John or the Faceless would have answered: ‘Classified’. Therefore, I had let it pass. But I waited and when John had finally finished what he had been doing in South America, I had no reason not to ask.

 

     It was a misty night, one of these cloudy ones which do not let you look at the stars. November was dark and gloomy, and London was unusually silent, as if the entire city fell asleep covered by the milky mist. John was having one of the rare times when he looked like he had forgotten how to smile. In the orange light of the streetlamps his eyes were darker than the sky. We were the only people in sight, just two nameless figurines slowly walking home.

The air seemed to be tense and suffocating, with John stubbornly staring straight ahead, and suddenly I had enough.

‘I know there is something you’re not telling me’, I stated. We were holding hands, and his was cold. ‘That’s okay. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. But, John, it’s hurting you, don’t you see? Is there anything I can do?’

In the dim light I could see him adapt his military stance. Then, he stopped and turned towards me. We stood there, alone in the dark, as I waited for John to speak out.

When he did, it was quiet, it was forced, and his usually open face looked like a blank page.

‘During my previous Change’, John started with difficulty, ‘I was working for Richard Brook. This is why Mycroft wanted me to help him now. You... may have heard my Name’.

I had a feeling, in another one of these frightening moments of clarity, and it made me freeze.

‘Sebastian Moran’, I heard myself speak.

He nodded.

He was saying something else, with striking, intense urgency in his voice, but my mind was spinning again in mad white and blue circles. I freed my hand from his cold hold and walked away.

I think he must have been calling me but he knew me well. He did not follow.

 

     I am not sure how long I  have been wandering, surrounded by steady, comforting London buildings. No one there paid attention to me; I was only a lost dot on the map, nameless like a grain of sand.

Although I can recall this night vividly, mindful of tiny details, I have never been able to remember  if back then, when November was blanketing the streets, I was crying.

I am certain, though, that my solitary aimless walk did little to ease my mind. I did not know what to think. I did not know  what to feel. I did not know what to do.

 

      As I mentioned before, I had never felt that comfortable with the idea of the Nameless being above the moral issues.  Even the human notion of what was right and what was wrong, although a bit lacking from my Nameless point of view, had been more acceptable.  There was something disturbing in the thought of a murderer  completely dismissing his crimes and then becoming a totally different person within a short time. It was absurd. All of my previous Changes had shaped me.

 

     Not that I avoided my fellow Nameless acquaintances. We were a small group, so we had always kept in touch. But I had found it unacceptable that they would embrace this part of their past so easily, with a carefree feeling of being almost omnipotent, and surely above the ordinary human laws. It was painful to know that my own Face, _a part of me,_ was one of them. 

I would hear a dull, throbbing echo of John’s thoughts in the back of my head. I tried to block it, to be free of the worry for at least a short while, but in vain. The world was spinning again, tickling me, blinding me, hurting me.

I think my hands must have been shaking.

 

     But I knew, and it was the thought which I could not dismiss, that John had been afraid. Whether he genuinely felt some kind of remorse for his past crimes or was ashamed for admitting them, I could not guess.  However, when I closed my eyes, I could see him clearly, so often gazing through the window, with these darkened eyes, sullen and somehow grey, as if he had tried to blend into the background and failed.

     I also knew that John Watson was not Sebastian Moran, although he used to be. This fact did not mean I was able to accept everything as it had been.

     It meant that in the dark hours before the dawn, with freezing hands and conflicted mind, I found myself standing at the doorstep of 221B and wondering whether I should come in.

 

And I did reach the decision. 


End file.
